


Reconciliation

by midnightisolde



Category: Dracula - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 10:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16407020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightisolde/pseuds/midnightisolde
Summary: One shot. Exempt from larger planned story involving my OC Adela Greyshaw - a young governess who crosses paths with Dracula in 1890. He keeps her for reasons she knows not, for surely he could kill her if he wished. She has grown accustomed to his 'visits' but fears him still. Fears which are not only of him but of prior experience. Implied sexual content.





	Reconciliation

**Author's Note:**

> Author note:
> 
> Reconciliation - A one-shot scene from the Dracula/oc story I was planning. Currently inactive. Cross post from FFN  
> This scene takes place while Adela is captive by Dracula. With this encounter and others, she begins to feel more at ease with him; perhaps pity and even grow fond of his company. Dracula does not drink her blood as she expects, but instead gives her an experience of pleasure she has not before enjoyed.

The ancient door opened, creaking from its heavy weight, yet there was but darkness beyond for no one stood within its arched frame. Adela's eyes darted about the room cautiously. His presence had become familiar, and indeed there were times when his company was not entirely unpleasant. Yet the fear he could inspire was still considerable. He seemed to take a sadistic delight in this fact. There was still much to indicate that he could not be trusted. He could be amiable, but there was always the threat; the latency of violence and malice which he could unleash whenever the mood arose; whenever he ceased to amuse himself with her continued existence.

And then, she saw the shadow creeping across the wall, familiar in its tall, skeletal form of elongated limbs, mantis-like arms and long, sharp nails upon claw-like hands… he himself, his corporeal self, was not so nightmarish. Not at the moment. Sometimes shadows conspire to exaggerate and things become not as they are but, rather enter into the ethereal as what they seem.

Sensing the shadow at her side, she turned her head and found him a few feet away, his tall, black-clad body standing with a statue like stillness. His deep crimson eyes were animated with a preternaturally piercing gaze, within the darkened hollows of the ashen face beneath the dark mane. He sustained this deathly stillness for a moment, and his sudden reanimation thereafter seemed all the more miraculous. His eyes were unblinking and their gaze possessed much of his usual manner of devouring her as he approached, yet this was not all. There was something else, though his stare was still unnerving.

Adela sat up warily upon the bed, her body tautly wound in wait of his attack; unflinching though fear grew in her as he stood before her by the bedside, towering ominously above. What would his next move be this time?

''Did I scare you, Miss Greyshaw?'' he taunted dryly in a low whisper. Adela looked at him unmoved. His tone still sardonic he continued, ''I do not amuse you? Ah, I'm sorry the question was superfluous.''

He gazed at her meaningfully then sat down on the bed, such that they were more or less level, she unsure whether to shrink away or stay and the indecision left her fixed in place. Her eyes widened for a moment as he raised one of his large pale hands with sharp-nailed fingers to her face… He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. His eyes contemplative, but unreadable, he studied her, ''you look worried'' said he, still with the same derisive humour yet with a memory of regret and concern.

Adela stared at him, her brows furrowing. He spoke to her quite amiably at all other instances, but usually he rarely spoke to her during his 'visits' – not on his own accord at least (had he his way, he would stalk her wordlessly before seizing her), for he always approached silently and only spoke because she did… in some ways, she like Scheherazade, seemed to have the effect of slowing him down or perhaps the brief conversation inspired some compassion in him, to the effect that he was quite reasonable in his demands. In truth, his present conversation was not so different, yet it seemed almost like he had come for some other reason than to feed… but perhaps that was too naïve of her; too idealistic – too romantic?

Finding her voice, Adela replied ''I cannot deny that – I would be foolish to say that you do not frighten me, and so I must admit that you worry me when you appear at these times of night.''

His dark-ringed eyes narrowed and read her easily, ''then you have more sense than some and yet… you grow less cowering and pathetic – what am I doing wrong?''. A sardonic humour played little across his lips. He paused considering her, then suddenly inhaled and withdrew his hand from her face. Indifference returning he continued, ''do not be worried – you know nothing will help you.''

''What are you here for?''

He was unmoved by this, though a glimmer of offence burned in his eyes, (whether it was angry or disdainful was difficult to say) and replied haughtily, ''it is my castle. I may come to any room if I so choose.''

Adela closed her eyes and exhaled. ''yet here you are in mine.''

''Is it yours? Or rather mine and I've kindly let you stay in it'' he replied sarcastically. His expression became weary as he turned his gaze away, ''why should I go to any other room? They are empty .''

Adela stared at him contemplatively for his words felt strangely hollow and… sad. Perhaps this was some sort of new manipulation, she thought, I feel sorry for him. How can that be? I can imagine that his existence must be lonely, but with the long centuries endured he seems reconciled to it. He revels in cruelty. Can he ever be truthful? But why should he bother to befriend or seek my pity? He has no need for it – he has me already.

This tragic posture of his was short-lived and broke; he seemed to sense her thoughts and grew mordant once again, as he warned in a low whisper ''I see your thoughts, Miss Greyshaw.'' He drew up close beside her suddenly, but before getting too close, or even touching her, he said ''you ask why I am here. You know why I am here. That is obvious.''

Adela smiled grimly, ''yes. You are here again for the same reason as the times before.''

His brow furrowed slightly; sadistic humour glittering faintly in dark recesses of his red eyes. ''Does that frighten you?''

She sighed, ''if you are as before then – then no… yes? I don't know. You terrify me each time… Yet somehow I – I trust you because you have always been… reasonable.'' She grimaced, ''I'm not sure whether I should be reassured by that or horrified, as you are probably just prolonging your use of me, until you kill me – willingly or unwillingly.''

He considered but did not reply, only watched her with an unblinking gaze which drank her in hungrily. His eyes were oddly mesmerising. He was deadly silent now as his pale, battle-scared hands were spider-like as they worked their way around her. He pushed her down onto the bed; his strength too great to resist. Descending to her neck he said quietly ''that may well prove true''. Trembling a little beneath him, a fear rose in her as he tilted her head and lowered his mouth to her neck. She shut her eyes…

And then they opened wide in surprise, as she felt his lips lay a gentle kiss upon her neck.

He never did that.

And one of his cold hands lightly touched her breast and lowered and rested on the curve of her hip; the other stroking through her hair, no longer pinning her down but instead… cradling sensually. To be sure, his manner of feeding always seemed to have a sexual undertone, and as such the fear he inspired did so likewise… but where the intimacy couldn't be helped in other instances, due to the unavoidable closeness of his feeding, he seemed to be actively encouraging such an impression this time.

He raised his head for a moment to look at her; wickedness in the piercing blood-red eyes; hard to determine whether playful or genuinely malicious... or both. Continuing to caress her side, his cold, rough fingers tracing her soft, porcelain flesh, he lowered to kiss the nape of her neck again, his lips lingering there softly. A new kind of fear emerged in her as she took note of her sensitivity to his touch; her heartbeat quickening… awakening a longing in her which she wasn't sure whether to resist or succumb to, though it felt strangely… pleasing.

He must be trying to confuse me, she thought, perhaps teasing me like this is another way to amuse himself. Or perhaps the irony of seeming to treat me as a 'lover' though he is killing me. She felt him lingering at her neck, desire filling him as he felt her blood quicken beneath his touch. She felt sure that he probably had forgotten about such trifles, his hunger too great by now, and so prepared herself for the inevitable.

But he never did bite.

Instead, he rose up from her with some effort, the longing to taste her haunting his wide, hungry eyes; their gaze raking over her body. Yet he seemed to subdue this, and his expression relaxed into a languid mischief and… she thought she detected the glimmers of genuine warmth in him, but she couldn't be sure. He seemed set on something, which terrified her as there were no limits as to what he might do, and so she felt a little panicked by this unknown thing that seemed to have piqued his interest, even more so than drinking her blood. That was saying something.

He sat beside her, which made her feel rather vulnerable lying down on her back in her sheer chemise; so small beneath his black-clad frame above. Of course, she was accustomed to such positioning as it was somewhat inevitable that she would be placed beneath him in some way, but somehow his manner seemed to indicate a different threat… She always thought he might rape her, and she thought he might be about to now. Was it not true that Vlad had done many callous, abhorrent acts in life?

His lifting of her skirt didn't help much. Terrors from previous memories grew.

He looked at her knowingly, as though acknowledging her worries. It was strangely comforting, though it could easily have been deeply unsettling that he fully understood the trauma he was threatening – traumas that were not new, and which he would tear open as an unhealed wound if he continued. Yet somehow a part of her trusted him. Perhaps he would prove her wrong to do so. Such traitorous desires he coaxed from her were unwillingly submitted.

Tenderness rose to heat as his fingers touched her, and suspenseful apprehension was coaxed as his touches ascended closer, the intimacy suddenly more real. She lay still and quiet beneath him; her breath quickening - in terror or anticipation she could not tell. A gasp of surprise came with the closure of the space between them.

She grasped his wrist and he paused. Not for long. Her grip grew soft; her hand merely holding his. Something in his manner made her relax… perhaps it was supernatural – she marionette-like while he pulled the strings… yet it felt genuine; like he hadn't taken control of her body against her will, and it was instead a mutual, fully conscious agreement…

So wrong to allow this of him - he was like the Demon Incubus. I shouldn't, let him...

His touch there again seemed to unlock hidden pleasures; coaxed softly from her body and grew. It coiled deep inside. Tense and sensitive each time his fingers stroked lightly against her. Tension wound inside her core, as she tried to suppress the vocal expressions which would make her delights undoubted. She loathed the thought of his mocking face gloating over how easily he could make her feel such things … Keeping the pleasure quiet and secret so that no one may learn of it. Yet there was no one. No one except the two of them alone, and the space between them melding into greater intimacy each minute.

''Don't fight it, Adela'', he said very softly, in that deep voice of his which could make her shiver. He lowered to her, his face so close that the long tresses of black hair mingled with the chestnut-red of hers; her name tender on his reddened sensual lips. The first time he had ever used it.

The futility of repression was clear. His touch caused her such delight, though it was not entirely unknown to her, as she had made explorations herself before. She knew pleasure was not unobtainable for herself or indeed dangerous. But was it a sin to allow him? Yet never had she managed such pleasure as he gave her now.

He knew. He knew with his bloody gaze in the hazel green of hers, and in her trembling beneath his touch – her body seeming to meet him of its own accord. And still the pleasure expanded; grew pregnant and broke. She moaned in ecstasy for it could be contained no longer – the warmth of pleasure flooding across her flesh. A nub of hot tenderness, she overflowed in waves of ecstasy at his gentle touch. The sensitivity unbearable, but from pain or pleasure she could not say and could only moan softly and arch to him in submission.

But there was no mocking triumph in his face; nor cruel malevolence in his eyes, but reassurance. It was strange to see him thus. Could it be real or some strange fantasy? Yet he guided her gently through the ebbs of pleasure, though it brought no obvious physical pleasure of his own, her heart beating fast and rhythmic until she could no longer bare the pleasure that rose, overflowed and burst exposed again as though something had broken irresistibly within.

Still sensitive to his last lingering caresses, her breath still heavy and her heart slowing but still fast inside. How could he bare it? She wondered. she was so aware of the warmth within her body, which broke fast in her veins from her core to her finger tips – how much more aware of it was he? It must be maddening for him. Surely he must satisfy his own desires now? She thought as he held her tenderly to him for a moment in his long arms.

Yet he never did.

His eyes turned to her, wide and hungry but he seemed to repress this; she could see that he wanted to bite. But instead he wordlessly replacing her skirt to retain her modesty and arose sharply from his place by her side, though his hands lingered softly as though not wanting to leave. She felt a respect for him as he began to retreat from her, his tall, lank body, clad in the black cloak of the Draconists which hung from his broad shoulders, seeming to meld into the blackness of the night, except for his pallid hands and face; the penetrating red eyes like those of a Dragon. His ashen face was unreadable of course, and expressed nothing except a momentary knowing gaze of mutual understanding, and a sort of genuine warmth which was strange in his deathly face and empty eyes … But nothing in his quiet stillness betrayed the urges which must rage beneath the surface, though it must surely be unbearable. The darkness enveloped him more and more, until he was one with it and the shadows once more.

And, somewhere out in the black hours of the night, he would slake his thirst mercilessly; who ever had the misfortune of crossing his path would meet only a bloody, painful end while he took his pleasure in their demise…

The old arched door shut promptly, leaving her alone again. ''You don't have to go'', Adela whispered softly to the dark, empty night. He was gone…

**Author's Note:**

> Background: she is a virgin and wrestles with the reality of her sexuality in an era marked by repression and denial of sexual pleasure, especially female, despite the reality of the Victorian underworld seething with it. Men keep mistresses; brothels are numerous; prostitution, pornography and venereal disease is rampant... Al this Adela well knows as her mother was a brothel girl 'bought' by her father who fell in love with her. Her half-sister Marian is a prostitute having been conceived while Adela's mother had prostituted herself again, after Adela's father fell out of love with her. Thus, Adela feels pressure to conform to expectations of respectability. Her father took her into his care, but it is gossiped that she is his bastard - which she is. She is unconformable with intimacy and sex because of this, but also because she is dismayed by what her mother and half-sister are forced to do. She does not want to be seen by polite society as disreputable nor as a whore, but yet inside she also feels that sexual activity and enjoyment by women should not be seen as wrong... Thus, the infamous Count loosens the repression Adela puts upon herself, unleashing the sexuality which has been denied her


End file.
